Murder, Magic and Mystery
by MerlinAK
Summary: All we could make out was that she appeared to be dressed in a long, loose dress and some form of hooded cloak. She stood there in the light drizzle for a few moments, before turning and walking away. Suddenly, there came a loud crack and she vanished. Sherlock turned and gifted me with on of his rare genuine smiles. "The game, Dr Watson, is on!"
1. The Vanishing Woman

**Hello, this is my very first fanfic EVER, so sorry if the characters are a bit OOC. The story will contain spoilers for Series Four, so I recommend you go watch that first if you haven't already (it's out on DVD now). I do ship Johnlock and it is vaguely in there, but is mostly background noise. Enjoy!**

I sipped my cup of tea, trying not to look too exasperated at Sherlock's incessant pacing. My eyes glazed over the bland page in front of me, and I kept sneaking peaks over the top of my newspaper. My flatmate was rather fascinating when on a case. Dark curls over brooding ice blue eyes. Haughty expression. A brilliant mind making brilliant connections that, naturally, would be completely obvious in retrospect. Who actually knew what went on in that head? Not myself for sure. Of course, I could see the very tip of the iceberg, but even after many years of friendship, the rest remained submerged and elusive.

"Gertrude is wrong!" came a sudden declaration. I turned back to see Sherlock's eyes focused on my own.

"Gertrude? Who's _Gertrude_?" I frowned.

"You know. Gavin. That police officer we keep helping out. Lestrade."

"Gertude's a girl's name!" I protested loudly.

"Whatever! George! Who honestly cares? Does his name even matter? The point is, he and the rest of that incompetent lot think it was a freak dog attack disguised as a robbery gone wrong. Makes sense at first - the window was smashed _after_ the murder, and body moved into position, didn't take enough valuables, traces of grit on shoes, dog hair found on clothes, savage mauling on side of face obscured by knife strikes."

"So, they're right," I pointed out.

"Watson, I think that you of all people should realise this was not the case!" he shot back.

"No, the grit was planted - someone else rubbed the shoes over a pavement after - the scratches are inconsistent and the grit only comes from one area. They also weren't being worn when the crime took place - the bloodstains don't match up and there's not enough shine. No traces of dog saliva whatsoever in the side of head. In addition, severe bruising to the brain and skull fractures suggest a heavy object. That and the additional factor that he had a physically abusive wife all points to a domestic murder disguised as a freak dog attack disguised as a robbery gone wrong! Solved!"

"Wait, the _wife_ was abusive?"

"It's blindingly obvious John, next time please at leat _try_ to understand the intricate connotations of a human's appearance!" Sherlock pulled on his long trench coat.

"Hurry up John, Gary won't figure this out by himself!"

Downing the last few drops of my English Breakfast, I set the newspaper and mug on my armchair before hurrying out of the room after my infamous companion.

I was woken up at three in the morning to the mournful tune of Sherlock's violin. The wife had been arrested, Sherlock had regretted taking such a mundane case (why can't anyone be creative anymore?) and I had attempted to find a new problem. Evidently, my endeavours were failing. I tried to go back to sleep, but the haunting melody was relentless.

Ruefully I slipped on my slippers and padded downstairs. The insomniac was gliding around the room, violin tucked elegantly under his chin. His eyes, I noticed, remained fixed on a specific point out of the window. Suddenly, Sherlock threw down his violin and flung himself against the glass.

"Watch, John" he breathed.

I tiptoed over and peered outside. The sky was a typical purple/orange colour due to the appalling light pollution. Sherlock's eyes were fixated on a person standing on the street opposite.

All we could make out was that she appeared to be dressed in a long, loose dress of some sort and hooded cloak.. She stood there in the light drizzle for a few moments, before turning and walking away. Suddenly, there came a loud crack and she vanished.

I blinked a few times before coming to the conclusion it must have been a trick of the light and the woman had simply stepped into a shadow. I looked at Sherlock. The edge of his mouth twitched. Then he was dashing out of the door. I sprinted after him, slamming the door shut as we hurried out into the street. Several vehicles sped pass under the orange glow of the street lamp. We crossed the road to where the lady had been standing. Sherlock's eyes danced from place to place, analysing the environment. Producing a few swabs and ziplock bags from his pocket, he bent down and collected some orange fibres, as well as several traces of mud.

"Fascinating," he whispered.

"What is?" I queried, the heat of the case making my heart beat frantically against my rib cage as I stared up at Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock turned to face me, intrigue and excitement dancing in his grey eyes. He stood up to his full night and gifted me with one of his rare genuine smiles.

"The game, Dr Watson, is on!"

 **I should post a new chapter every** **couple of days** **. On the off chance anyone is reading, please review and tell me** **what** **you** **think!**


	2. Chief Superintendent Potter

I stayed off work for the rest of the day due to my sleep cycle being unceremoniously disrupted. I slept in and came down at nine. Sherlock, of course, hadn't even gone to sleep, and sat across me at the kitchen table. I munched a bowl of granola.

Abruptly, he leapt to his feet.

"The clothes, John!" he exclaimed.

"The clothes that woman was wearing, you mean?" I said through the cereal.

"Or man! It could have been a man! But yes, they were far too... far too strange! No one would wear that attire in public! It was the middle of the night, therefore they must have assumed no one would see them. I traced the fibres, and the dress was made from Devon Longwool sheep wool, specifically that of a lamb. Quite a heavy garment and produced off of the market - an unknown specialist. But why? And where did they go?"

We went back down onto the street to see where our mysterious friend had gotten to. She had disappeared next to a flat wall with no windows, doors or other openings. We were far from any openings.

"People don't just vanish," I muttered as I examined the bare wall for hint. Sherlock was holding a stick and was hitting the wall in different places with different amounts of force. Pedestrians gave the pair of us a wide berth.

"You think it must be something to do with the noise?" I guessed.

"At precisely three in the morning, we hear a loud snapping noise and a person dressed in strange clothing from a specific type of sheep's wool vanishes? Of course it's connected John, the question is how?"

Sherlock whirled around, his coat spinning behind him.

"Where did they go?" he burst out. Half a dozen pigeons rose off of the ground in fright. "There are no alleys, corners, windows or anything!" He pointed at the ground. "They couldn't have even gotten through the drains, because there are none in the immediate vicinity!"

"Listen, Sherlock, there has to be an answer. We just have to calm down a bit." I strode over and rested my hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

"Now, Lestrade has just texted me about a strange and exciting murder." I tried very hard to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. Sherlock's interest in 'creative' crimes could be rather disturbing, although it just made me like him even more. "You know how an interesting case always cheers you up, eh?"

"I AM ON A CASE RIGHT NOW!" Sherlock yelled. "GAWAIN CAN'T MAKE ME!"

Sometimes I suspect he messes with Greg's name deliberately.

"It's _GREG_ ," I pointed out, "and could you _please_ at least _look_? Would that really be so hard, Sherlock? _Really_?"

Sherlock gave me a condescending look. I stared him down.

"Fine," he muttered. Trying not to look overly smug, I grabbed his hand and dragged my friend towards a waiting taxi.

Lestrade greeted us outside of a dingy flat in one of the more run down areas of London.

"Ah, Sherlock, John, come in," he said, lifting the bright yellow police tape. Sherlock gave him a curt nod before ducking under, holding up the tape for me. I flashed my friend a quick smile.

"Now," started Greg, "this one has us completely baffled!"

"As usual," sniffed Sherlock in response.

Lestrade led us into a small apartment. I watched as Sherlock's eyes scanned every surface for minute details. We were shown into a room. A man in his mid twenties lay on the floor. A shelf had been knocked off of the wall, and books lay strewn across the hard wooden planks. A photo lay on the floor, its frame smashed.

I could see no visible causes of death.

"Well, John," drawled Sherlock. "What do you think?"

Sighing, I bent down and examined the body.

"No obvious signs of strangulation," I observed. "He wasn't shot or stabbed obviously." I felt the side of the head, my thin plastic gloves the only thing separating my skin from the dead man's. "Neither was he hit over the side of the head or anything. Heart attack or something? It would be odd, of course, but not unheard of. What's his medical history?"

Greg strode over. "According to his drivers license, his name is Benjamin Walker, and his medical records indicate a mild allergic reaction when exposed to pistachio nuts, nothing more."

I looked at his body. "And, he didn't-"

"He did not die from an allergic reaction."

"Right. Well, I can't get anything so Sherlock, your turn. Work your magic."

Sherlock stepped over and bent down. "Right handed, studies law at King's College, has a major interest in the science of flowers and a little sister whom he sees often." Sherlock stood up and snapped some photos of the man and the flat with his phone. "Take the body to Molly for a full autopsy, I want to know exactly how this man died. I will just take another look round the flat, something is definitely out of place here. Sherlock stood up and made for the door. In the entrance, Donovan was blocking the doorway.

"Out of my way," he snapped angrily.

"Mind your own business freak," she shot back before turning to Lestrade. "Sir, Special Operations are here. They say we have to leave."

"Huh?" A look of confusion crossed the man's face. "I didn't call for any _'Special Operations'_. This is strictly a police matter. Have them clear off!"

"I'm afraid that won't be necessary," came a voice from the doorway. An average height, black haired man stepped into the room. He looked to be a few years younger than Sherlock and wore round glasses. He was dressed in black trousers and jacket, an emerald green tie and a dark purple shirt. A long black coat came down to his knees, sporting an emboldened silver 'M' on the breast pocket. The most curious thing about him, however, was the striking scar at on his forehead - shaped like a bolt of lightning.

"Chief Superintendent Potter," he said, holding out his hand to Greg, who took it and shook firmly.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade, at your service. May I ask, what are you actually doing here?"

"Mr Lestrade, this is a matter of utmost importance. This case will require specialist attention."

Two identically dressed people entered the room, an older man with greying hair and a hard expression, and a young woman with curly black hair pulled into a ponytail.

"Don't you worry!" exclaimed Lestrade. "We, erm, have already got that. This is Sherlock Holmes and Dr John Watson."

I stepped forwards and shook hands. Sherlock simply stared.

"I see," continued Potter. "Even so, this is a confidential matter, and we will need to take over the crime scene. I am afraid you and your officers will have to leave now."

Potter reached into his pocket and took out an ID badge. This seemed to satisfy Greg, who excited the room, Donovan behind him. Potter stared expectantly at Sherlock.

"Officers, if you would like to leave now."

Sherlock smiled and walked towards the door. And shut it. He turned back to Potter and his aides.

"We aren't with the police," he stated calmly.

Potter frowned. "Then who are you?"

"The bigger question, Mr Potter, is who are you?" Sherlock paced back and forth across the room. Potter started to look visibly uncomfortable.

"What is your real motive, Mr Potter? What is so special about this one random murder?"

I had almost forgotten we were chatting next to a corpse.

"Yes," I chimed in. "I happen to be a doctor." And there is something wrong with this body: there's nothing wrong with it. This man shouldn't be dead."

"I bet when the autopsy comes back it won't have been poison," added Sherlock.

"You won't be getting an autopsy, this is a police matter, and you are not with the police. I have asked you twice already and I don't want to use violence. Now, for the final time, leave this room," Potter said as he attempted to regain control over the situation. "You are already civilians contaminating a crime scene, and I don't want to have to arrest anyone tonight."

Sherlock's face darkened. "You can't make us!" he taunted. He made for the body. "Try stopping me!" Potter lunged forwards to block Sherlock, who shoved him against a wall.

"Sherlock!" I shouted, astonished.

"Fine!" he spat, before storming out. I threw the officers an apologetic glance before dashing after Sherlock. The rest of the police had cleared off and we left the building and hailed a cab.

"What the HELL was that about Sherlock!" I yelled when we got back to the flat. "I know you've been reckless before but you just ASSAULTED a member of the POLICE!"

"No, I didn't," Sherlock sighed.

"Well what do _you_ call it then?"

"A fraud skilled in the fine art of manipulation,"

"YOU KNOW THAT'S NOT WHAT I MEANT! Besides, what makes you think that? He looked legitimate to me!"

Sherlock waved Potter's ID in front of my face.

"You _bastard_ , Sherlock."

Sherlock gave me a smug grin.

"It was all a diversion?"

He nodded.

I collapsed onto my armchair. "Of course!" I groaned.

"Potter is going to be so cross when he finds out!" chuckled Sherlock. "Also, he definitely isn't with the police - I searched his name on the database."

I frowned. "Sherlock, only the higher officers in the police are able to access the database."

"Your point?"

I chuckled, and took the ID from Sherlock.

"Harry James Potter," I read. "Hey, that reminds me. What secrets was Mr Potter revealing? You were oddly quiet at the time."

"Happily married, wife probably ginger. At least one child. Might have a dog, but the fur was hard to make out against the clothing. He leads a fairly active lifestyle. Right handed. Lots of experience his his job. Also, he was carrying some form of weapon - not a gun."

"How could you tell about the weapon?"

"When I lunged at him, his hand reached to his left, inside of his coat, but he didn't get said weapon out. I also saw the other two making the same gestures, except the other man was left handed so his was in reverse. It couldn't have been a gun because guns leave a distinct impression in the clothing. So what was it?"

"A knife would be too messy, doesn't suit him," I said, "he's far too experienced to deal with stuff like that. Also, a knife would be just as distinctive. Syringe? Taser? Anyway, whilst Harry Potter is all very well and good, surely we should focus on the dead man?"

Sherlock remained silent, a look of distinct irritation on his face.

"Sherlock? Anyone in there? How did he die?"

Sherlock glared at me. "I. Don't. Know." he muttered angrily. "It's impossible. He shouldn't be dead. I was hoping to get some clues via Molly, but our crime scene was hijacked. We need to find that body, John."

 **For anyone interested, purple and green is actually used by witches and wizards to show themselves in public, which is the theory behind Harry's wardrobe. You can find out more at** writing-by-jk-rowling/clothing **.** **What do you think of the story so far? Please review!**


	3. Special Operations

"No, Sherlock, I don't know what they did with the body, okay!" Lestrade was getting more than a little irritated by Sherlock's incessant questions.

" _I_ recon that Mr Holmes is a little jealous!" called Donovan as she came over to the doorway to Greg's office. "He doesn't like it when a mysterious crime is solved by someone else!"

Sherlock shot her a filthy glare. "I, unlike you, am above that sort of petty feud." His eyes narrowed. "Anderson's moved on, has he?"

Donovan muttered something angrily under her breath and stalked out.

"Listen, Garry-" continued Sherlock,

"Greg," he corrected automatically,

"LESTRADE, did they even solve the crime?"

"Yes, actually! Apparently it was an accident, he administered a lethal dose of heroin. Quite the addict, they said. Now, would you mind _consulting_ a more relevant crime?"

Sherlock frowned deeply. "He was no addict."

The next morning, I found Sherlock analysing the cloth samples again in the kitchen. Two separate experiments were set up – one for the original fabric from the disappearing woman, and one for a few threads I hadn't seen before. Deep in concentration, he was completing several tests analysing different elements. Spread out on the countertop behind him lay several large photographs. I strode over and had a look – the dead body, the room. Shots of Chief Superintendent Potter. Shots of the view from our window at night. Even a couple of grainy photos of the mysterious vanishing woman. And, for some inexplicable reason, sheep.

"So, Sherlock. Care to explain?" I glanced back at his brooding features. Dark shadows overcast his face. A look of intense concentration simmered behind his eyes. Naturally, he said nothing.

"I'm guessing these two cases are connected?" I mused aloud. "Erm… and the unifying factor is sheep?"

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"That… hang on – was it that rare type of sheep you were telling me about earlier? The 'Dover Hill Sheep' or something?"

Sherlock leant back in his chair. "Devon Longwool."

"Right. Yes. And they are connected _how_ exactly?"

My flat mate eyed me carefully.

"No, Sherlock, I _don't_ actually know," I added, "so your input would be greatly appreciated."

He sighed. "The coat, John, the coat. Normally, two items of clothing made out of the same material wouldn't be particularly unusual, but this wool is very specialised. It is also normally used for rugs, not clothes."

I remembered Potter's coat – long, stiff, black. Not unlike Sherlock's, come to think about it. Of course, Sherlock's coat suited him very well, whilst Potter had looked a bit like an overgrown school child.

"So, you think… what? They know each other?"

"I am not entirely sure."

"Right. Well then, any theories?" I looked back at Sherlock, who was once again absorbed in his work. Typical.

"I'll pick up some milk on the way back, okay?" With one final glance back, I donned my coat and strolled out of the door. Usually, I miss work when I'm on a case, but Sherlock was being persistently oblivious to my presence, and there was no sense in wasting time.

When I got back that afternoon, laden with groceries, Sherlock was on one of his many laptops, examining blown up pictures of the dead man, Benjamin Walker, and his flat. I remembered what he had said to Lestrade – _He was no addict._ I had to agree. The body had shown exactly none of the many signs of heroin usage, let alone abuse. He had been in perfect health – except, of course, for the fact that he was dead. Evidently, Potter had been trying to hide something – was he the criminal? Was 'Special Operations' simply there to dispose of the body? I knew there were ways of killing people with barely a trace – poisons that were impossible to find unless you knew exactly what you were looking for – but usually, the criminal would do at least a half decent job of attempting to cover it up. Besides, those poisons were expensive. I looked back at Sherlock, who had been staring at me with a slight smile on his face. As soon as we made eye contact, he glanced away again and started rambling on again about the case again. I stifled a grin.

"So, John, as you could probably tell, Benjamin Walker was no _drug addict_ , that's for sure, and _John why are you staring at me like that?_ "

I blushed and nodded for him to continue.

"Right, by considering all possible factors, I have deduced that it _must_ be an untraceable poison. By reexamining these photos and cross referencing with my memory, we can understand that Mr Walker was in possession of a heavy cloak, much like the one the vanishing woman was wearing, presumably made from the same unusual material, Devon Longwool wool. Potter, Walker and the woman were all members of some form of cloaked cult with ties to Devon, where they got their supplies from. Benjamin Walker had done something to anger the rest of the society, and needed to be killed. The vanishing woman used her incredible stealth skills to break into his apartment, and administered the drug in his sleep. However, it would take minutes to act, and in that time, the vanishing woman _or_ man, we must consider the possibility that he was a man, knocks over one of the photos – I saw it smashed in the floor when we visited. Walker wakes up and stumbles out of bed, knocking over the bookshelf and scaring the woman, who thinks it hasn't worked. She flees, and Walker drops down dead. The cult finds out she didn't cover it up with a gunshot or stab wound or something, and sends Potter and two others to take the matter out of police hands. Potter removes all evidence and takes over, tells the police it was a heroin overdose, case closed, phone Lestrade!"

I stared back at Sherlock. Face flushed from excitement, eyes shining in delight, the very picture of youth and happiness. And good looks, I might add. Not that I'm gay, because I am genuinely not, whatever people may think, but _damn it,_ he's handsome!

"John? John? You've been acting rather strangely lately, haven't you?" The happy expression was gone, replaced by utter severity.

"Of course, on we go!" I chuckled nervously.

Sherlock gave me a funny look before grabbing his coat and striding out of the door. His 'I'm a serious adult' act was slightly ruined though when he started skipping down the stairs, singing _Happy Birthday_ to himself.

On the taxi drive to Scotland Yard (Lestrade hadn't picked up the phone) Sherlock was antagonising to say the least, the euphoria having been quickly replaced by what I can only describe as hunger. A malevolent gleam marred his features, anticipation of a chase evident in his every move. I oughtn't be too hypocritical - I too was excited about the prospect – but sometimes I wish he wouldn't make his sociopathic tendencies overly obvious.

"John," Sherlock said quietly to my left. I turned and saw Sherlock's hand gripping the back of the driver's seat. His eyes were narrowed in concentration.

"John!" he repeated, louder.

"What? What is it?" I replied.

"STOP THE CAB!" he yelled.

The taxi swerved all of a sudden, turning down a separate alleyway. If anything, it appeared to speed up. I looked out of the window, noticing for the first time that we were in a completely different section of London to where we were supposed to be headed. My urgency joined Sherlock's.

"Didn't you hear him? STOP THE BLOODY CAB!" I reached into my pocket, bringing out my standard issue Browning L9A1 handgun. "I HAVE A GUN AND I WILL, I REPEAT I WILL USE IT!"

Lies, of course. Despite what Sherlock might say on the subject, I'm smart enough not to shoot the driver of the car I'm sitting in. Apparently, the driver knew this too, as he ignored the threats and simply ramped up the speed.

A wave of motion to my right, and Sherlock was shooting into the glass partition. Luckily, my face was protected by the back of the seat (bonuses of being short) and whilst I got some small cuts on my leg and a large gash on my forearms, no major injuries occurred. The shots had been loud and bright, and now my ears were ringing uncontrollably. The car swerved for a moment, dangerously close to a wall, but the driver appeared to be unharmed. I took my cue and scrambled through, slicing my back on a jagged shard. Limbs flailing uncontrollably, the driver and I struggled with the wheel.

I had no clue what Sherlock was doing in the back, until the drivers attention was ensnared as Sherlock wrapped his arms round the driver's neck. Lights were flashing everywhere as I struggled for control, and I had no clue if they were in my head or a part of reality.

A violent shove from the driver and I was forced to the side. My head connected painfully on the gearstick, and the world was plunged into darkness.

 **So, how are you finding the story so far? Please review if something is bothering you – I will accept any good advice on how to improve! Thank you!**


	4. Obliviate

**Hello everyone! So far there haven't been any spoilers, but if you haven't seen Series Four, then I'm afraid this is the place to stop. On a brighter note, the DVD is available for purchase on Amazon, so don't let it stop you. Enjoy!**

 _Sherlock's POV:_

I shoot through the glass twice, and fragments explode everywhere, embedding themselves in my body. Temporarily blinded, I fall back on my seat, blinking away the shock. John. _John._ Is he okay?

I see him scramble over the back of the drivers seat. I see blood staining his clothes. He is wrestling with the driver, and the car is veering from side to side. Reason ignored, I dive forward and wrap my arms round his neck. John makes for the steering wheel as I keep the driver occupied, but he is strong, much more so than myself.

His head smacks back into my face and I recoil in shock, my grip lessening for a split second. But that is all it takes.

A wicked punch lashes out, hitting John in his ribs. John falls back, and with a sickening crack, the back of his head connects with the gearstick.

 _ **I see red.**_

The next thing I know, the cab has stopped and I am stumbling out, falling over the unconscious form of the driver.

John. _John Watson._ _**Save John Watson.**_

Head pounding, ears ringing, I make my way round to the other side of the car and drunkenly fling open the door. John's body is scored by small cuts. Blood stains his clothes. Mrs Hudson won't like that. She doesn't like it when we get blood on our clothes. Though usually it's someone else's blood. Maybe she won't be as cross this time, as it's his own.

I know I'm not thinking straight. But he looks dead. And as tears flood my face, I frantically try to revive him.

Phone. Phone the ambulance.

Figures emerge from the darkness. Shapes swim in front of my eyes. The M. The silver M. It swims and dances before my eyes. Potter… the M.

The figures advance. I try to shield John with my body. They can't get him. They _can't!_

Suddenly, a bright white light flashes before my eyes.

 _I sprinted through my mind palace. A tidal wave of white water swept through after me, destroying my carefully constructed walls. As I ran, I grabbed anything I could find along the way. The confusion surrounding the dead man. Sheep. The M. The silver M. I was running out of time. I ran down a spiral staircase. The one place the water could not get to. I heaved open the heavy door and shut it behind me. Water crashed behind, but I was safe. The one place that I would never forget. Harsh white light illuminated the dreaded padded cell. Forgetfulness could not touch me here. I pulled my memories close._

 _Dark eyes watched from the corner. Moriarty laughed manically. My weakness. His laughter chipped away at my hold. But I clung on tight, to myself and my precious memories. The water would not take everything._

 _John's POV:_

An alarm blared beside me. Groggily, I rolled over and sat up. Being in the military had meant no delays, and I could get up fast and efficiently. After quickly changing, I walked down the stairs of 221B and put the kettle on. Sherlock was lying on the sofa beneath the smiley face, frowning and muttering to himself, in his pyjamas.

"Are you going to get dressed?" I asked. "You know we have a client coming round in twenty minutes!"

Sherlock frowned at me. "Really?"

"Yes Sherlock!" I sighed, exasperated.

"I thought we were already on a case…" he mumbled quietly.

"Um, not that I'm aware of! Last night you were shooting the _wall_ out of boredom! Again!" I exclaimed, sarcasm lacing every word.

"Was I?"

I paused in concern. It wasn't like Sherlock to just… forget things. He was frowning again.

"The silver M," he muttered.

"What?"

"I said, _the silver M_!"

"I know, I heard you!"

Sherlock shot me a filthy look. "So _why_ did you ask me to _repeat_ myself then, John?"

Clearly I wasn't getting anywhere. "Okay, I'm cancelling the client, you aren't in a fit state to see anyone."

I heard a sudden gasp from the sofa and turned back again. Tears were dripping from Sherlock's eyes and he was pulling on his hair, in obvious pain.

"Sherlock?"

He collapsed on the sofa.

"SHERLOCK!" I leapt across the table and dashed over. Sherlock was gasping loudly, shock on his face.

"Okay Sherlock, I want you to breathe calmly!" I said, my internal doctor kicking in.

"In-two-three-four and out-two-three-four, in-two…"

After several minutes, Sherlock had calmed down. I sat on the sofa, slowly massaging his temples. He seemed so thin, so frail. His eyes were closed and he was breathing calmly. I shifted slightly and he snuggled in closer.

"Okay Sherlock," I said softly, sorrowful for disturbing him but knowing it had to be done, "can you tell me what was the matter please?"

Sherlock stiffened, pressing himself closer towards me.

"It's ruined," he choked, the tears returning. The sudden openness was shocking, but Sherlock did seem to not be himself right then. He seemed incredibly… childlike.

"What's ruined?" I coaxed gently.

Sherlock sobbed again and reached his hand up, tenderly touching his forehead.

"My mind palace. It's been desecrated."

The fear in his voice was incredibly saddening.

"What do you mean?" I queried, struggling to appear calm.

"Everything's… messed up. It was all neat and organised, and now…" he hiccuped again and buried his face into my jumper. Startled by the increased affection from one usually so reserved, I hesitantly wrapped my arms around him, praying it would be enough.

After phoning and apologising to our client, and telling the hospital I couldn't come in for work, I sat back and looked at Sherlock. His sleeping head rested on my lap.

"Right." I said out loud, alleviating myself from the oppressing silence. Sherlock showed no signs of recognition, so I continued.

"So, the mind palace. Desecrated, you said."

I looked dawn and sighed.

"And _what_ am I supposed to do with you?"

I had no idea what Sherlock was going through. I doubted Greg or Mrs Hudson would understand either – they may have known him for longer, but I definitely knew him better. And none of us actually understood how he thought. But I needed to in order to help him. And that left one person.

"Hello, Mr Watson. Why have you deigned to disturb me?" the cold, sarcastic voice drawled from the end of the line.

"Yes, hello Mycroft. Listen, I need your help. It's about Sherlock."

"I'm on my way."

The door creaked open and Mycroft entered, a concerned look on his face. He broke out into a grin upon seeing us.

"Well, well, well, what do we have here?" he gestured meaningfully towards us. "Is Sherlock being… _intimate_ , dare I say it?"

I blushed heavily. "Don't be ridiculous, Mycroft! He fell asleep!"

"I can see _that_ ," he replied knowingly. "So, why did you phone me? You sounded rather shocked in your call. Did Sherlock _surprise_ you with his _advances_!"

"Mycroft!" I glared at him. "Come on, grow up will you?"

Mycroft went pink. "Listen Watson, I am a very busy man and I don't like people wasting my time. Did you have a legitimate problem?"

"Yes! As I said in my call, it's about Sherlock. He seemed very strange today. Last night he was screaming about how he needed a case and shooting the wall! Yet this morning, he seemed to think we were already on one." I looked back at Mycroft, who had gone white.

"Please proceed," he said calmly.

"He kept on muttering nonsense, so I decided to cancel the meeting with the client. The next thing I know he's screaming and sobbing. So I went to help. He said… he said his mind palace had been… desecrated?"

Mycroft's face was blank. "Did he mention anything else?"

"The letter M. He kept talking about a silver M. Listen, I wanted to know, has this kind of thing happened before?"

Mycroft frowned. Sherlock took that moment to suddenly sit up next to me. His eyes were bloodshot and his hair even messier than usual. Mycroft frowned, but said nothing. Sherlock looked round blearily.

"Sherlock, are you feeling okay?" I asked slowly.

Sherlock did not respond. He was looking around the room in shock, eyes wide and confused. Mycroft made to step towards him, but held himself back, a look of concern and guilt on his face. Sherlock sat back down on the sofa. Slowly, we realised he was muttering something under his breath. He leant forwards, his hands behind his head, and the muttering increased in speed and volume. Mycroft and I leaned closer.

" _The silver M, the silver M, the silver M, the silver M, the silver M, the silver M, the silver M, the silver M…"_ Sherlock chanted like a mantra. His eyes were crazed and his breathing ragged.

Mycroft straightened, and a panicked look crossed his face.

"Mycroft, _what_ is going on here? I'm not stupid, _you_ know something, and I would be very grateful if you would tell me _what the hell is happening?_ " I glared at him. "Now Mycroft, tell me," I gestured towards Sherlock, " _has this ever happened before?_ "

Mycroft blanched. "Yes," he whispered softly.

I sat back down on the sofa next to Sherlock and wrapped my arm round him. He ignored my presence. "Well?" I prompted. "Why did it happen? What prompted it? How did you fix it?"

Mycroft nodded. He dragged a chair over and delicately sat down. "He was four. I was eleven. You know everything about Redbeard now, correct?"

I nodded.

"Well, this was about the time of Redbeard's… disappearance. Sherlock was beside himself. Our families lived very close to each other, and they had been friends since birth. The rest of the family moved away at that point. Too many memories, I suppose. Also out of self protection – there were quite a few other children in the family, and they wouldn't want to loose another to my psychopathic sister. It also so happened that at that time I was accepted into an exclusive boarding school for gifted and talented students. Sherlock lost both of us at the same time. He couldn't cope. We got a… specialised psychiatrist. To help him manage. The _techniques_ used prompted a mental breakdown." Mycroft looked back at Sherlock, who had ceased his mutterings and was now staring out, oblivious to our presence. Not that that was unusual of course.

"Okay, so what do we do about it?"

Mycroft sighed and frowned. "Get him distracted, I suppose. But most importantly, be there for him."

He stood up and gave him a slight smile. "My brother has never been overly trustful. But it seems as if he has decided to place his trust in you. Don't let him down."

He nodded to me, then walked out of the door. It shut with a quiet click.

 **Please let me know what you think and review!**


	5. Mind Games

"Hello Greg. Yes, I'm fine. Uh-huh. Actually, that's what I was phoning you about – do you have any cases? Yeah, I know. Really? Okay, thanks! See you in ten minutes."

I put the phone down and looked back at Sherlock sadly. He was pacing the room, hands on his head, talking to himself under his breath. All I had managed to get off him was anger and the silver M.

"Hey Sherlock! Greg has a problem, he really needs your help. Sherlock? Sherlock, please respond!"

Sherlock looked back at me. "I'm sorry John. It's just…" he gestured towards his head with a pained expression. At least he had stopped sobbing on me. Actually, that was a lie. I had kind of enjoyed it. But my feelings were pretty messed up at the moment, and it would be for the best if I was as normal as possible.

"Come on Sherlock. For me?"

Sherlock looked back. "The silver M, John. It's the key. We must find out more. Then again, the fungus does need four more hours in the bath, so I suppose, for you…" he trailed off, staring into the distance. I didn't even get cross that he was growing probably harmful fungi in a place supposedly designated to hygienic purposes. I was in that much emotional turmoil.

"Right, of course. Fungi, in the bathtub. I won't even question it. Let's go."

…..

Sherlock solved the crime shockingly easily, muttering the whole time about 'the silver M' and scaring the police officers to death with his bouts of shouting. On the bright side, it kept him occupied for the rest of the day.

As I got ready the next morning, I pondered what Mycroft and I had discussed. The last time he had had a breakdown of this scale was when he had been given inappropriate therapy? That made no sense. And how did that correlate to our modern situation? Also, why would therapy techniques cause his mind palace to be 'desecrated'? It was time to do a little detective work of my own.

Sherlock was sitting sullenly on the sofa in his dressing gown.

"Sherlock, can I talk with you please?"

He gave me a stroppy look and shuffled over. I sat down next to him.

"You know how yesterday morning, you were feeling very… emotional. And you were talking about your mind palace, and a 'silver M'? Can we talk about that please?"

He grudgingly nodded.

"What did you mean when you said it had been 'desecrated'? Can you please clarify? I just want to understand what's going on, okay."

Sherlock sighed and met my gaze. He had been acting incredibly strangely since that morning, and I was worried sick. "My mind palace... its very hard to explain. But it's vast. It's a memory technique Mycroft and I learnt when we were younger, and we've kept adding to it ever since. It's a massive labyrinth where I store lots and lots of knowledge. But the thing is, I keep it very clean and tidy. Everything has its place." He scratched his head angrily. "But yesterday morning, everything was strewn everywhere! Locations had been moved, different memories assigned different places, many simply removed! I couldn't make sense of anything. Years of knowledge, blurred beyond recognition."

"Right. Okay. And… the silver M?"

"I don't want to talk about it. It's important, that's it."

I nodded. "That's your decision then. Do you know _why_ this happened?"

"No. But I bet _Mycroft_ does."

…..

As we sat waiting in a small coffee shop on the corner of Bond Street, we caught many a passing stare from the nearby pedestrians. Several gave a cold glare, one man shook Sherlock's hand and congratulated him, and a little girl of about seven or eight shyly asked for our autographs. Eventually, Mycroft arrived and sat down.

"Sherlock. John. Good to see you," he said with an attempt at a smile.

"Mycroft," replied Sherlock. "You've gained two pounds."

" _Must_ we proceed with the childish banter? It is so _dreadfully_ dull. Why did you want to see me?"

I leaned forwards. "We want to know why someone trashed Sherlock's mind palace," I said coldly. "And Sherlock says-"

"You know," finished Sherlock.

"How adorable, you're finishing each other's sentences now! I hear David Morris is doing a discount on rings, if you're interested."

"Good God Mycroft, I thought you said we were past this! Stop evading the question! Sherlock hasn't been attending any 'special therapy', so why is his mind palace in ruins!"

"Middle age?"

"Listen, your brother has a serious problem! Now, you and I are the people who care about him the most, so it's damn well our bloody job to help him!"

"Not _sentiment_ , John!" Mycroft exclaimed in mock horror.

"Of course _sentiment_ , you cold hearted _machine_! He's your brother, HELP HIM!"

Mycroft looked back at me. His mask of indifference was beginning to crack at the edges, traces of guilt sneaking through at the edges. He knew something.

"Good day, John. Farewell, Sherlock."

Sherlock stared at his departing silhouette. "He knows exactly what happened to me. Mycroft, you're getting rusty, you're face was positively _overflowing_ with guilt."

"He was very clearly trying to evade our questions. Hey… Sherlock, you know that 'silver M' you keep going on about?"

"Yes," he replied curtly.

"Well… Mycroft begins with an M, doesn't it. Perhaps he played a bigger role in this than we thought?"

Sherlock ruffled his hair. "That, John, is a brilliant point. But I remember it was some sort of… some sort of logo? On black fabric. And it was connected with sheep."

"Sheep wool?"

"Yes, of course!" He glared angrily. "Sadly, all of my memories of sheep wool have been muddled up and scattered all over my mind palace. It took time putting together those files together!"

"Whatever's going on, Mycroft is in the thick of it. Now, why don't we drop it for a moment and look at cleaning up that fungus sample in the bath?"

…

I decided to call in biohazard disposal after examining the fungus more closely. Sherlock refused to go to sleep, insisting he was waiting for a 'sign'. He sat at the window, watching. At eleven I came down to join him, unable to sleep due to a particularly terrifying nightmare about a car crash. Soon, I nodded off on Sherlock's shoulder.

I was woken by a sickening crack. Sherlock shook me off and raced down he stairs in his pyjamas. I followed on sleepy legs. A strange sense of déjà vu took hold as we dashed out onto the street.

A figure stood under the streetlamp, enveloped in heavy robes. And suddenly, I remembered.

 **Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed. Please tell me what you think!**


	6. Déjà Vu

_A figure under a street lamp - the vanishing woman. Devon Longwool sheep. Chief Superintendent Potter. The body. The secret cloaked cult, shrouded in mystery, protected by murder. Potter keeping the body. The rouge taxi. Gunshots through the barrier. A punch, and subsequent unconsciousness. A flood of blurred memories._

 _Shadows. A familiar voice speaks._

" _Will he be okay?"_

 _An echoing answer. "The Healers will fix him up, don't worry."_

 _A long twist of wood raised high._

 _A blinding white light penetrating every fibre of my body._

I gasped, remembering the _true_ events of the last few days. Something had happened that caused me to forget – the white light – but what _was_ it?

Sherlock ignored my sudden revelation, sprinting full tilt towards the figure. I picked myself up, head finally clear, and followed in a hurry.

The figure turned with a start, cloak billowing. We were almost on top of her. She whipped out some form of stick or twig and brought it down. I bumped into Sherlock, who's outstretched hand had connected with the cloak of the woman.

Suddenly, it felt as if I was being squashed into a narrow tube. Bands cinched down on my chest in a suffocating embrace, and I felt my bones twisting and warping. A nauseous feeling erupted in my stomach, making me want to retch. The outside world had been replaced by a myriad of colours, blinding and burning into my eyes. Black spots closed in on my vision.

As I was threatening to black out, with an echoing _crack_ , my feet met the ground and I collapsed.

I quickly stood up, swaying. The dimly lit streets of London had been replaced with the driveway of a country house. A sudden feeling of revulsion threatened my gut again and I promptly vomited onto the gravel. The sick was putrid and a vile yellow-green colour, and left a strangely sour aftertaste in my mouth.

Head cleared, I looked back at Sherlock, who stood straight, rubbing his scalp. I searched wildly for the robed woman, but it was hard to see in the almost nonexistent light. I walked over to my flatmate as a shadow stepped forward. I felt my skin prickle.

"Stupi-"

 _ **Thwack**_. I punched the woman in the jaw, and she fell backwards onto the gravel. Sherlock bent over, pulling back the hood. A groan escaped from a bruised mouth.

 _He_ had a strong jawline, which had taken the brunt of the blow, and _he_ also had wavy sandy hair. _His_ short stature had kept up the illusion _he_ was a woman.

Sherlock began examining the man. "Married quite recently, small dog…" he rooted through the pockets in the cloak. "A Mr Seamus Finnigan-Thomas, according to the crookedly sewn on label… as for what he was doing there, how we got here, or why he is wearing these clothes… nothing." He stood up again. "This makes no sense. How did we get from London to here almost instantaneously? And why _here_?"

"Why? Where are we?"

" _Mycroft's_ house. I knew he had something to do with my mind palace, but I never realised the extent of his involvement," Sherlock spat angrily. "This makes no logical sense. Teleportation isn't even real. Did you see the swirling lights, John?"

I nodded.

"Drugged, and dropped off in a van perhaps? But why!"

Seamus stirred.

"He'll know," said Sherlock. He learnt over and slapped Seamus in the face. The man scrambled to his feet. He looked frantically over the ground and lunged towards the twig he had been brandishing earlier. I kicked it away and tried to look as imposing as possible in my cotton pyjamas, backing the man up against a short stone wall.

"We have a few questions for you, Mr Finnigan-Thomas," I said curtly. "Would you like to comply?"

Seamus felt his cracked lip and nodded.

"How did we get here?" asked Sherlock.

"Erm, you travelled," he said vaguely. He spoke with an Irish accent that reminded me strongly of Moriarty.

"Listen you incompetent fool, would it trouble you so much to be a _little_ more specific?" Sherlock replied with venom. "Were we drugged? Kidnapped? It's evident _you_ couldn't have done it, so did you have accomplices?"

"Something like that. Look, I really ought to be getting on. Can I have that back again?" he gestured towards the abandoned stick.

I reached down and picked it up. It was much more intricate than I had originally expected, smooth and polished, and fashioned out of beautifully crafted wood. It gradually got thinner until it came to a point, and had a distinct handle decorated with a dark grey spiral. I shifted it round and grasped the thicker end.

There was a flash of light and my hand was jolted back, akin to the kick of a gun. The stick flew from my grasp and landed with a crunch in the gravel. Seamus dashed around me and picked it up. I was still winded, and whilst I stood gasping, he brought the stick down with an almighty _crack_ , and promptly vanished.

Sherlock ran over. "John, are you okay?"

"Yes," I wheezed, straightening. "That thing had a kick like a bloody mule!"

"This is not physically possible." Sherlock muttered. He strode over to the sight of the disappearance, examining the gravel. "There is a faint starburst pattern, but the stones have been sucked _inwards_. That and the violent noise would be what one would expect if something did in fact vanish – molecules rushing in to fill the space. But we know that's not possible, so how?"

"I'm sorry, but I am _way_ out of my depth here. Is there actually a possible explanation?"

"All the evidence is pointing towards him _actually_ vanishing. But we know that couldn't have happened, so we need more evidence to disprove this hypothesis."

I nodded. I thought back to what had happened after seeing the vanisher for the second time. The flood of memories. Particularly the thing about the Healers and the blinding white light.

"Sherlock, after seeing the man, did any memories come back?"

Sherlock's face darkened. "I couldn't sleep this night and so waited by the window – for an inexplicable reason I felt like something was going to happen. Then I heard a cracking noise, and saw the figure step from the shadows. I remember bits and pieces of the last few days – Potter, Devon Longwool sheep, my deductions. Fragments. But my mind is still scarred, my palace in ruins."

He shook his head. "On the bright side, we've come closer to solving Benjamin Walker's murder than ever! I may have lost some of the resources, but this case has been _terribly_ exiting! It should entertain those sorry souls reading your blog, anyhow!"

"I suppose," I chuckled, glad we could suck some humour from the situation. "Now why don't we pay dear Mycroft a quick visit? He certainly has it coming after all this mayhem."

"Mycroft is too clever for that. He must know by now we're on his trail. He has his methods."

Sherlock paused to examine a worm in the mud, a pink sheen in the dirt the only visible sign of its whereabouts. I imagined Mycroft's network would be like that – hidden beneath the surface, only visible if you rubbed away at the layers of concealment.

It began to rain, great fat drops falling down from the cloudy night sky. Sherlock shivered, dressed, like me, in his pyjamas. I sighed and checked my watch. 3:26. Great. Exhaustion began to kick in, as I reviewed our predicament – stuck in god knows where at half past three in the morning, wearing nothing but very light pyjamas. It was going to be a long night.

…

Sherlock had some favours owed, and so, through a combination of hitchhiking and stolen bus rides, we arrived back at 221B at five in the morning. I walked straight past Mrs Hudson's cries of shock into my room, and after stripping off my sodden pyjamas, collapsed into my bed. My dreams were haunted with exploding glass and blinding white lights as I tossed and turned in my sleep.

 **Thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed, your feedback is greatly appreciated! I ought to have the next chapter out by Thursday or Friday, depending on how much homework I get.**


	7. Hacking Mycroft

I shook my head as I blearily rolled out of bed. My dreams had been vivid and strange, although all details were quickly leaving fast. I quickly got changed and checked my watch – 8:36. Not too bad, although still quite late, for me. I headed downstairs and put the kettle on. Sherlock lay sprawled across the floor, several apple laptops open wide in front of him.

"What are you up to?" I asked as I brought out the mugs. "Cup of tea?"

"Sure," he replied, eyes fixed on one of the screens. "And I'm hacking Mycroft."

"Okay," I said. "Any particular reason? Don't tell me you haven't hacked him before."

Sherlock smirked. "I've previously read through all of his general files, but recently he's set up a couple of new firewalls. Also, last night's magical adventure prompted a more thorough investigation. Seeing as how we were dumped at Mycroft's house, I thought we ought to check on his involvement."

I nodded as I poured out the boiling water and added several spoonfuls of sugar to one mug in order to account for Sherlock's surprising sweet tooth.

"That reminds me," I said, "you never really gave a proper concrete excuse for why we didn't ask Mycroft for help."

Sherlock turned to me with his 'I'm so shocked you could be so stupid' face. "Mycroft? Remember what happened the _last_ time we went for help! We're a threat John, especially now, since we've gotten our memories back. Also, we saw Finnigan-Thomas. I wouldn't dream _he'd_ work for Mycroft, far too sloppy, but even so, Mycroft wouldn't let me _near_ something as important as his _house_." He shook his head patronisingly and turned back to his computers.

"But he's your _brother_!" I protested, pouring in the milk and handing the steaming cup of tea to Sherlock, who grunted reluctantly in acknowledgement. "Surely he wouldn't have left us out in the freezing rain in the middle of the night."

"You don't know my brother," he muttered darkly, before smiling slightly. "Arch nemeses have standards."

I shook my head. "This is your bloody feud again, isn't it!"

Sherlock pouted for a moment "I don't have _feuds_."

"Yes yes Sherlock, if you say so."

"I do say so," he shot back. "Besides, there is a legitimate point of concern. Mycroft is definitely involved somehow, and I don't want to compromise our freedom. And he doesn't want me to see anything."

Sherlock was so incredibly childish in some ways, like a toddler who'd never really grown up. I didn't doubt his intellect or logic, but his emotional control and stability was another thing entirely. It did make me wonder what exactly had happened between them. Perhaps it was to do with what Mycroft had mentioned a couple of days ago, him leaving for a remote boarding school soon after Redbeard's murder/disappearance.

"Done!" Sherlock cried. He waved me over and I sat down, peering at the files open on one of the laptops. It seemed to be lots of logistical proceedings, emails, and diary entries.

"I will never understand it," I muttered.

"What?" Sherlock rolled over onto his back, frowning slightly.

"Why you get to be such a genius,"

"A combination of genetics, upbringing and curiosity," he replied nonchalantly. I doubted anyone but myself would be able to read the underlying prideful subtext. Sherlock loved praise, though rarely showed it.

I turned back to the documents and started to read.

 _Sherlock's POV:_

I would have thought snooping through Mycroft's personal folder would be more interesting, but my brother had grown soft with age. He had compiled an entire folder of aesthetically pleasing photographs. So _mundane_. I groaned. Wasn't there going to be anything useful in this worthless bucket of sentimental drivel? I glanced back at John. He was a much slower reader than me, but hadn't protested at my erratic pace. He actually seemed interested in Mycroft's pathetic ramblings. I picked up my mug, taking an experimental sip. Good, John had put in enough sugar. I could usually stifle my irrational sweet tooth, but sometimes the urge could not be resisted.

In order to better sift through the junk, I decided to compile a list of what we knew already in my mind palace. I was still getting used to having my memories back. I could now at least remember the general events, although they were blurred and hazy, as if someone had tried to rub out a pencil line, but left a shadow behind. Some details though, for an inexplicable reason, shone through in stark contrast. I could remember the dark fabric of Potter's coat, the shine of the glittering silver M on the rough fibres. I could clearly see the bright white light on the fibre sample, and surfing through web pages about Devon Longwool sheep.

Anyway, onto the list. First, there had been the figure under the spotlight. Physically disappeared, we now knew he had somehow managed to teleport. More information required.

Then, Benjamin Walker. Murdered, no clue how. I disregarded my original deductions on his murder – there was no way Samuel Finch-Tucker (or whatever his name was) could have killed someone, he was _far_ too weak. Originally, I had deduced it couldn't have been poison, and I decided to revert back to that stance. Also, I had seen that Walker too possessed one of the cloaks, so they were connected somehow.

Next, Potter had intervened, pretending to be with the police. My bets were that _he_ was the one working for Mycroft. I had been heading over to Lestrade's with my deductions when we had been apprehended by the driver.

After that had come the forgetting. We still had no clue how that happened, but the reappearance of Stanley/Shaun/Stupidfacewithannoyingname had prompted our memories – a trigger system. When I was at university, I had taken a crash course in hypnotism. Trigger words were important. Perhaps that was what had happened to our memories?

So: teleportation, unexplainable murder, and probable hypnotism? This case was turning out to be incredibly entertaining!

 _Johns's POV:_

"Sherlock?" I said as I scanned the text.

Sherlock kept his eyes closed, but nodded slightly. I barrelled on.

"This looks like it could be a lead," I continued, gesturing towards an entry. "Also, I'm not _gay_."

Icy grey eyes snapped open and scanned the text. A broad grin broke out on Sherlock's face as he read.

"Taxi time!" He sung under his breath.

"You know, after all these near death experiences, you would think we'd've given up on this mode of transport," I muttered.

"I like to have a bit of a thrill in my life. Besides, most taxi drivers are so _ordinary_. It's fun when they aren't."

I shook my head at Sherlock's antics and followed him out of the flat, pulling on my coat and shutting the door behind me. Behind us, a single email lay open on the screen:

 _Mr Holmes_

 _Meet me 09:30 04/03/17, ZSL London Zoo, on the dot. This is a matter of utmost urgency concerning the Statue of Secrecy breach your brother and his boyfriend were involved in. I also wish to converse more on the matter we discussed earlier._

 _Ms Chang_

 **Sorry this chapter was so short, and nothing much happened apart from them thinking. I cut a massive chunk out as I wanted to use it in a later chapter (it's currently labelled 'Chapter X' and is sitting in my folder). But anyway, it's the weekend now, so I should be able to write at least two more chapters! I also want to sit down and have a think about where the plot line is going, as the story doesn't really have much of a direction at the moment. Any ideas would be greatly appreciated, and of course, please review to tell me what you think!**


	8. Secret Meetings

**I am so sorry I haven't updated in ages. I have now sorted out my plot and know where I'm going, so the chapters will hopefully come along faster now. Enjoy!**

Sherlock sniffed in distaste at the people buzzing all around us. He looked distinctly uncomfortable. I couldn't say I was too happy either – with all these people around, it was hard to watch out for threats. Remnants of my training in the army, I supposed. I winced slightly at the memories. Not that it hadn't been a wonderful experience, of course – just the attack on base where I had been injured was still painful. Diagnosed with emotional trauma, 'unfit for duty'. I cast my thoughts away. The past was the past. Right now, we needed to find Mycroft.

"There must be some form of meeting place," Sherlock muttered behind me whilst glaring angrily at the tourists. "We should expect a Chinese woman between the ages of twenty five and thirty five, very businesslike and succinct, in some position of authority but beneath Mycroft. She doesn't work at the zoo but is adept at blending in. Why choose the zoo, you ask? Simple, it's a perfect place to discuss something urgent but not incredibly important without having to record it; the two pretend to be tourists, and no one bats an eye. Keep a good look out John, these people are professionals."

I nodded slowly, and checked my watch. 09:14. Sixteen minutes to go. I passed the time listening to Sherlock's constant stream of deductions of the people surrounding us. We saw one man have £20 stolen, but didn't say anything because apparently the thief's mother was ill and the 'victim' was having an affair.

We spent a while milling around in our 'disguises'. (Sharpie moustaches and sun hats. For a detective, Sherlock is terrible at dressing up). Soon, I spotted a tall, dark haired man in a suit wearing a pair of cheap sunglasses and a baseball cap. Perhaps a tendency to stand out was a shared Holmes trait?

A woman with jet black hair in her mid thirties walked towards Mycroft. She was wearing a zoo worker's outfit and had a warm, smiling face.

"She's doing an excellent job at putting on a good disguise, but as I said earlier, she certainly doesn't work here," Sherlock muttered in my ear as we pretended to read a notice board. "Traumatic childhood, owes everything to Mycroft. Married, no children. Husband is distant due to her pressing work schedule, and the fact that she never entirely got over her teenage crush. Oh, and she's armed. So is Mycroft."

Sherlock grabbed my hand and we pretended to walk over and ooh and ahh at an aviary full of magnificent birds of paradise. I glanced back and saw the pair deep in conversation. Mycroft had taken off his hat and glasses and his eyes were narrowed in concern. They spoke in hushed tones, and I dragged Sherlock closer so we could hear better.

"-third attack this month! This is getting problematic, you've spent years on this scheme and it's all falling apart!" whisper-shouted the woman, Chang, in a Scottish accent.

"I am perfectly aware of the time and effort I put into this project, and the state the country will be in if it is compromised. Whoever they are, they're a threat and an enemy. The one problem is we don't actually _know_ who _they_ are."

"I'll send some scouts for new information."

"See that you do. People of this… skill set… are _very_ hard to come by.

There was a moment of silence from the pair.

"So, on another note, did you get rid of Finnagin-Thomas?" asked Chang.

"I've demoted him, but he's still working for me. Why?" replied Mycroft.

"He's reckless. Impulsive. You know the type."

"He's also brave, loyal, and steadfast in his beliefs. Plus he could use some financial stability in his life right now."

"This isn't a charity, Mr Holmes. He started this whole mess with your brother. He deserves prison at the least. For heaven's sake, he apparated in front of a muggle, then dropped said muggle outside your house! He also was _dressed in full robes and decided to show off his wand_. Yet you got him off without even a trial! Not only that, but now your _brother_ is also a major threat. How long will we be able to keep this a secret with him running all over the countryside figuring things out? You need to get him obliviated again."

"My brother has already been obliviated twice before, both times with catastrophic effects," snapped Mycroft, a cold edge hardening his voice. "The matters of the Holmes family stay within the Holmes family. Understand, Ms Chang?"

She nodded. "Understood, sir."

"Then I suppose that concludes our discussion. Farewell, Ms Chang."

Mycroft turned and made for the exit, and Chang headed off in another direction.

"Wow, that was intense," I muttered under my breath. "Can you remember all that?"

"Of course," Sherlock replied. "This is very interesting. Finnigan-Thomas was working for Mycroft?" he frowned. "Though if he was so 'impulsive' and 'reckless', he'd be the last person you'd gift with a cutting-edge teleportation device, this is a point against _that_ particular theory. As for 'third attack this month, I would presume that that was referring to the murder of Benjamin Walker. 'People with this skill set are very hard to come by' obviously tells us we missed something major when we investigated his flat, as lawyers, whilst training hard, doesn't fit the bill, and besides, Mycroft would never have a secret meeting about a _lawyer_. The hesitation around the phrase 'skill set', though, says perhaps it's controversial? Some strange ability? No, he said _people_ , so there are others, but it's rare, a combination of traits – skill _set…_ "

Sherlock continued to spout deductions for several minutes.

"…so really the next thing we have to do is to find out more information about Walker, it's frankly ridiculous we haven't done so before, Mycroft's fault, I assure you. After that, we'll have to do more research about Mycroft and obliviating, have you heard that term before, John? It sounds medical, don't you think?"

"Erm, yes, it does sound medical, but I certainly haven't heard it before."

"Darn it, well then we need to investigate Finnigan-Thomas, he's heavily involved as well, and then we need to track down the 'threat and an enemy' organisation Mycroft was talking about, because apparently they killed Walker. 'How long will we be able to keep this a secret with him running all over the countryside figuring things out?', asked Ms Chang. Not long! We appear to have quite a lot of leads, John, actually is almost verging on _boring_."

I frowned. "You know, Sherlock there have been a _lot_ of leads. Don't you think Mycroft might be… you know…"

Sherlock eyed me. "Setting me up? _Please_. Mycroft prefers to stay aloof and disinterested. He wouldn't dream meddling in my affairs."

"Erm. Sherlock, he meddles all the time. Meddling is what he does best."

"Yes, but he wouldn't invent a case with many moving parts and someone teleporting. This is both real and legitimate, John. You're the one always going on about _feelings_ and _empathy_ and rampant affection, and someone has died."

I frowned and nodded. Sherlock had a point, but something still felt decidedly off about the situation. "I guess we can leave it for a moment. What was first on the bucket list? Investigate Benjamin Walker?"

"That's right," he replied slowly. "All the evidence will have been removed from his flat, so we'll have to do some digging. What time is it?"

"Time to get a watch."

Sherlock eyed me strangely. "Why would I need a watch when I have you?"

"I am not your personal tag-along watch, Sherlock!" I sighed.

"Where on earth would you get that idea from?" he sniffed in distaste.

"Oh never mind. It's 9:55. Happy?"

"Ecstatic. So, if Potter was doing his cover-up work effectively, he should have recorded all the evidence. However, this is doubtful. We need access to more info about he case."

"Lestrade?" I suggested.

Sherlock nodded. "Let's head over to the Yard now, we haven't got all day." Sherlock turned up his collar, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and turned and walked off towards the zoo gate. I quickly hurried after, my pace being no match for his long legs and brisk stride.

 **I'm writing Chapter 9 now, it will hopefully be out soon!**


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